


The Concealed Heart

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Backstory, Family, Family Secrets, Gen, Love, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-16
Updated: 2008-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John House makes an interesting discovery in their Pensacola base apartment, and his son learns an unintended lesson.  1,198 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Concealed Heart

**Author's Note:**

> The central image in this little fic is from a true story, told to me by someone on my f-list. I am grateful for her permission to share it here.

_**Houseficlet: The Concealed Heart**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://housefic.livejournal.com/profile)[**housefic**](http://housefic.livejournal.com/) on 5/9/08.  
 **TITLE:** The Concealed Heart  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **CHARACTERS:** John and Blythe House, a very young Greg House  
 **RATING:** PG-13.  
 **WARNINGS:** None.  
 **SPOILERS:** No.  
 **SUMMARY:** John House makes an interesting discovery in their Pensacola base apartment, and his son learns an unintended lesson. 1,198 words.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** The central image in this little fic is from a true story, told to me by someone on my f-list. I am grateful for her permission to share it here.  
 **BETA:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) and [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/).

  
 **The Concealed Heart**

  
 _"Michelle, ma belle.  
Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,  
Très bien ensemble."_

She can't remember the last time she's spoken French to anyone who would know what she was saying, but she hasn't forgotten how to make the liquid syllables roll easily from her lips. It's something of a surprise to hear the song coming from the little transistor above the sink -- Armed Forces Radio doesn't usually play such unabashedly romantic tunes, but she'll take such pleasures as they come and so she sings along softly.

"Honey?"

Blythe sighs and takes her hands out of the soapy dishwater. She reaches for a cloth and dries her hands, then brushes a sweat-damp curl back behind one ear. It's been a sultry, humid summer, even for Pensacola, and for a moment she longs for a cool shower, a chance to stand under the piped-in rain and rinse the cloying, sticky-sweet moisture from her body.

No time, though. There are never enough hours in a day now for the things she's loved in her former life -- to sit in a quiet place and read a book, to write a letter to more than one of her sisters at a time. Her son takes all her time, and John ...

He has an odd expression on his face, and at first she thinks he might have hit his thumb with the hammer, but his look isn't one of pain, or anger at himself. It's something that she doesn't see very often -- a softness around the eyes, his mouth relaxed.

"Honey," he says. "Come here, you gotta see this."

Automatically, Blythe glances down, checking on Greg. He'd been helping his father earlier, but John had sent him away after the boy had proven far more interested in searching for dinosaur bones and arrowheads beneath the ripped-up bathroom flooring than in replacing the rotted boards.

At first it had been just the one board, a short piece nearest the toilet, but when John had pulled it up his mouth had set in a thin, tight line. The oval concrete pad beneath had been black with mold, an ugly mass that had obviously gained a fuzzy foothold long before the Houses had moved in. Blythe had asked him to tell the Base housing officer, so that he could call in a repair crew of carpenters. But John had shaken his head.

"No," he'd said. "It's the contractors that did this shitty job in the first place. They're just leeches on the government tit."

" _John!_ " Blythe had whispered. "Your language!"

"He's not listening," John said, but Blythe knew that wasn't true. Greg listened to _everything_. "I'll do it myself," John had continued. "Show the boy how to pound a straight nail."

"But he's only six," Blythe had murmured. It hadn't made any difference. It never did.

Now Greg is at her side, looking up at both of them with those wide, cornflower-blue eyes.

"Come on, you two," John says.

* * *

The small bathroom looks curiously _naked_ , Blythe decides, with its floor mostly gone and the baseboards stripped away. Her husband has thrown an old canvas tarp over the toilet and sink, but he's left the bathtub open, and it's now covered in a thin layer of sawdust, grime, and splinters. A spider is trying to climb its way out, but even with eight legs it keeps slipping back down the slick porcelain sides.

"Look, babe," John says, pointing down, and Blythe looks.

It takes her a moment to see it. There's another half-moon of concrete arching out from the far wall -- perhaps it had once supported a small gas furnace or heater. The concrete surface is scattered with bits of wood and nails and the tools her husband has been using. Now, just as with one of those classic optical illusions she's seen in the Time-Life books, where the goblet in the center suddenly turns into two faces, or a beautiful woman is revealed to be a cackling old crone, the hidden picture jumps out at her. She stares at it, stunned, until her son's piping voice awakens her.

"It's a heart, Mommy. Like Cupid shoots arrows through."

"Why, so it is, sweetie," she says, and pulls him close against her thigh.

The heart is outlined on the rough concrete with what appears to be heavy white chalk, and inside its jagged, meandering perimeter there is no trace of corruption.

"Whoever did it must've soaked the concrete with some kind of disinfectant," John muses. "Make sure nothing ever grew inside it."

Blythe nudges gently at the heart with the rubber tread of one of her Keds -- it smears, and she hastily jerks her foot back.

"Who _did_ do it, John?"

Her husband shrugs.

"Dunno," he says. "The officers' quarters in this section are pretty old -- some of 'em date back to when the base was first built." He frowns a little. "Could've been here since before ... the first World War. Whoever did it is long gone for sure."

The bathroom is silent; from the kitchen Blythe can still hear the faint, tinny voice of the radio.

"But why?" Greg asks at last. "Why draw something and then cover it up, Mommy?"

Blythe casts a helpless glance at her husband.

"I ... don't know, honey," she says. "Maybe whoever did this loved someone very, very much, but he felt like he ... couldn't tell the other person, so he kept it a big secret."

John rolls his eyes, but the answer seems to satisfy Greg.

"Huh," he says. "Can I go now?"

Blythe sighs. "Sure, sweetie."

Greg scampers away.

"He _couldn't tell the other person?_ "

"Oh, John, what was I supposed to say?"

Her husband chuckles. "I guess that was as good as anything else," he said. "Not like he'll remember it anyway." His arms come around Blythe, pulling her close. "I've got a _big_ secret," he murmurs, his breath hot against her ear.

Blythe leans into his chest, suddenly aware of his warmth, the scent of musky perspiration and aftershave.

"Oh?" she says. "And what's that?"

In answer, he simply hugs her tighter. She can hear the radio more clearly now -- Greg must have turned it up. Perry Como is singing, and she recognizes the tune almost immediately. John's strong hands move gently, stroking her shoulders, her ribs, the knobbly length of her spine, as they rock from side to side in a slow dance next to the chalk heart.

 _"It's been been so long now,  
but it seems like it was only yesterday --  
Gee, ain't it funny, how time slips away."_

His right hand slips lower, cupping her breast, and when his thumb brushes over her nipple she shivers and draws in a sharp breath.

"John," she murmurs. "Not in front of the boy."

Over John's left shoulder, she sees Greg in the next room, watching them with startling intensity. With a sudden burst of clarity, the picture emerges; she knows the lesson her son will take away from this, and she buries her face in the safe warmth of her husband's neck.

 _That which we love best, is best kept concealed._

  
~ the end.

 **Notes:**  
The complete lyrics to The Beatles' "Michelle" may be found [here](http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Michelle-lyrics-The-Beatles/4AECA612D111229D48256BC200138107).  
The complete lyrics to Perry Como's "Funny How Time Slips Away," written by Willie Nelson, may be found [here](http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/Willie-Nelson/Funny-How-Time-Slips-Away.html).


End file.
